


The Breaking Light

by audreyskdramablog



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Post-Canon, and sometimes that means you gotta bring someone back to life, look sometimes canon is unfair and needs to be tweaked afterwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: He stopped in Lestallum before with Luna, but under the night sky, the city has changed. Or maybe he is paying better attention now that he isn’t at her side, isn’t searching for the best parts to show her. Lestallum’s skyline is strange somehow, and he squints at it from the parking lot. It has been too long, so he can’t tell what it is that’s different, and there’s no telling anyway whether the difference is from before or after he was alive. He’s getting used to the fleeting permanence of this world, or at least he is learning how to not let his mind snag on the incongruities.Lestallum is ablaze with light and people. The crowd is familiar, even if the people that form it are not. A small, selfish part of him wishes that someone he knows will be here, if only so he can pry more information from them about Ignis and Gladio and Prompto and—andeverything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt:](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5690.html?thread=10636346#cmt10636346) Years after the dawn, Noctis returns -- can be as a ghost, reincarnated, magic, whatever -- and he goes to find his friends. There's nothing he wants more than to reunite with them, but when he sees them from afar and finds out they're living their lives and are happy without him, he can't bring himself to just show up and throw their lives into disarray.
> 
> Then someone catches a glimpse of him, and it may not be his decision to make after all…
> 
> And many thanks to [marmolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/pseuds/marmolita) for cheerleading.

Luna returns the photograph to him, as gently as if it were her own small miracle. Noctis slips the photograph back beneath the the jacket of his wedding suit, over his heart, where it settles into place like it is the final piece of him.

“Noctis,” she says, and her smile could rival the dawn. “Will you show me?”

He offers her his hand; she laces their fingers together as he draws her back down the steps to his throne. “Every one of them.”

* * *

The Eos of this place is different from the one that Noctis remembers. Different from the brief glimpse he had of a ten-year night, different from the hot, dusty road he first stepped out on at the age of twenty. It is Eos as it once was, as it could have been, as it may yet be, past and possibility and a perfect ideal all wrapped up in one. 

This time he does not mind walking. The sun is bright and high in the sky, and the air still shimmers above the asphalt in the distance, but the searing Leiden heat cannot touch them. 

Luna walks beside him. She points out the places she remembers passing on her way to wake the Astrals, but the journey she made through Lucis was one of haste. She did not have the chance to explore, to linger, to marvel in the freedom she’d only had too late. 

So Noctis wanders with her across the wider swath of the world, hand-in-hand, and shows her his favorite places, sketches out his brightest memories, takes her to the views that Prompto would beg to stop and photograph. There, the stretch of road where the Regalia first broke down; there, the dirt road that leads to a lake with one of his favorite fishing spots; there, where they helped a stranded family repair their car and a small child gave him a piece of candy in thanks.

Here, a haven and a final night where he confessed his fear and his love.

No, the memories are not all bright. But now, after the end, when proof of their victory over darkness hangs above them, bright and undeniable, Noctis can finally give voice to the fear and the anger and the despair that dogged his footsteps across Eos. It lances a wound he hadn’t known the depth of, and it leaves him lighter for it.

It takes until Tenebrae for Luna to open herself the same way. They lie in a field of sylleblossoms and watch them grow and bloom and drop their petals, while Luna speaks of a mother lost, of a brother turned, of covenants that burned holes in her soul.

She asks forgiveness for keeping the truth from him; he grants it.

He asks forgiveness for not saving her; she presses her lips to his and promises it was her choice.

* * *

It is not an empty, private world. There are other people walking hand-in-hand, revisiting memories, searching through city streets, or even flickering in and out of view. Sometimes they are recognized—or Luna is. She is as beloved here as she was in life, and she always has a moment to offer words of comfort, of peace, to those who seek her out. 

Noctis is neither the boy at twenty that most would remember, nor is he the man at thirty that he was so briefly. A few reason out who he is simply because he is at the Oracle’s side, but to most he simply does not matter, and there is comfort in that. He did not ascend the throne in hope of anyone’s gratitude. 

(Whenever they thank him for bringing back the dawn, the only reply he can form is  _ I’m sorry you had to wait so long. _ )

* * *

Pryna finds them when they finally wander into Altissia. Her tail wags furiously and she leaps up to plant her paws on Luna’s thighs and lick her hands. Noctis stays back while Luna drops to her knees and wraps her arms around Pryna’s neck. Luna murmurs things to the messenger that Noctis knows are not meant for his ears, and he busies himself with other thoughts.

This is clearly a first reunion between them, though he remembers Ignis saying that Pryna had died along with Luna. Had they really spent ten years apart? Or is this place like the Crystal, where time means less than he thinks it ought to?

Noctis considers all the places they’ve traveled together, how few sunsets and sunrises they’ve seen along the way, how a field of flowers experienced spring and summer and autumn while he and Luna absolved each other of their guilt. 

After Luna wipes her tears away, she takes Noctis’s hand again, and they follow Pryna through the immaculate streets of Altissia. When Noctis last saw them, they were in ruins, the people trying to salvage what they could; when Luna last saw them, Leviathan was threatening to destroy them all. 

It is the city where they were meant to marry, in another life, and now they explore it as they should have. They chase Pryna along the bridges over the waterfalls, take turns guiding gondolas through the canals, and admire the ornate mermaids carved in stone and shaped in brass. Luna dangles her bare feet in the water while Noctis fishes, and she laughs just as much when he loses a fish as when he catches it. Pryna wanders away from time to time but always comes back, as if she wants to make sure they’re staying put even though they’re not interesting enough to keep her attention.

The sun is peeking above the horizon, turning the sky and the water a kaleidoscope of colors, when a voice comes from behind them: “Lunafreya.”

Noctis turns, and there at a distance is a tall man with white-blonde hair. It takes a moment for Noctis to recognize Ravus Nox Fleuret in gray and blue instead of his white commander’s uniform, with shorter hair, and without his magitek arm. The uncertain hunch to his shoulders makes him appear vulnerable in a way that Noctis hasn’t seen since the fall of Tenebrae, or Gralea. But Luna knows her brother in an instant, and she is on her feet and rushing to him like he will disappear if she does not reach him in time. 

Ravus catches her in his—two human—arms. He says her name again, a broken benediction, and cradles the back of her head with a hand that is clearly relearning how to be gentle. He kisses her forehead, begins to weep, and Noctis slips away from the dock and back into the city proper.

It takes some time for him to notice that Pryna is following him. He pauses, then kneels before the messenger, offering her his hand. “Let’s give them some time,” he says. “As much as she needs. Can you find me again, when she’s ready?”

Pryna gives him her paw.

* * *

Noctis walks alone and without a destination in mind, just a vague restlessness that grows with every step. If Pryna is here, if Ravus is here, and they can find Luna, then is his father somewhere in this world, too?

(If Regis is here, has he found Aulea? Has he  _ been _ with Aulea these ten years while waiting for his son?)

He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. While he is still new to this place, this afterwards, it seems to Noctis that if his father wanted to welcome him here, Regis should have known exactly where to find him. But Noctis also remembers his own final moments and grants that Regis might not have yet made peace with what his son asked him to do, no matter how necessary or right it was. 

* * *

Hammerhead is still a welcome sight, though it is not the small fortress against the darkness that Talcott brought him to. It looks more like Noctis remembers, a little worn but a welcome respite from the endless desert roads. Even here, it seems to be a place for passersby to stop but not linger, and there is a different crowd wandering through than when he and Luna first passed by. 

There is a pair of lawn chairs outside the garage, tucked in under the shade of a wide umbrella, and a middle-aged man is sprawled out in one of them. He’s wearing a gray jacket, black pants, and a rust-colored baseball cap. His dark hair is getting long and is edging toward unkempt, just like his beard, and when he sees Noctis watching him, he raises his beer in a small salute.

The first stirrings of recognition push Noctis forward, and the man leans back in his chair as if to get a better look at all of him at once. “Would you look at that. You clean up almost as good as the Regalia.”

Noctis stares, distantly remembers a picture at Cape Caem and the men caught in it. “Cid?”

“In the flesh. Or whatever the hell it is we are now.” Cid smirks at him over the glass bottle before taking a long sip of his drink. “Doesn’t matter much to me. Six, I forgot how good this was,” he adds. He turns the bottle around in his fingers as if he’s admiring the label. “Haven’t had it since I was in Accordo, with Reggie.”

“You’re—”

“Just as dead as you.”

Cid might look closer to a photograph than the man that Noctis remembers, but his dislike of dancing around a subject is just the same. Noct smiles, because even though some part of him feels like he ought to offer his sympathy— _ Cid’s dead _ —the rest of him is happy to see someone else he knows after so many strangers. 

Noctis sits in the other chair when Cid waves him over. They trade the beer back and forth, and for all that they drink, there never seems to be any less of it. The beer is cold, strongly flavored with a hint of sweetness that keeps taking Noctis by surprise. It’s the first he’s consumed anything since—

Since Ignis made that final meal at the haven outside the city. Noctis wonders how long it has been since that night.

He must have spoken that last part aloud, because Cid says, “Three years, I think. My mind wasn’t the same there toward the end. Know I lost track of time, and in this place it doesn’t seem to matter.” He takes another drink before passing the bottle back. “But I made it to see the sunrise again. Wasn’t always sure I would.”

Noctis opens his mouth to apologize, but the look Cid gives him has him swallowing his words along with the beer. 

Three years gone already? When Cid died, that is, and there’s no good way to tell how long ago that was.

“How’s Cindy? And—everyone? Are they okay? Is—”

The questions pour out of Noctis so suddenly it takes him by surprise. He was content to wander when everyone except Luna was a stranger, but now that Cid is here, in front of him, the need to  _ know _ has him gripping the bottle like its his only lifeline. 

Cid’s low laughter cuts him off before Noctis can release all the questions he hadn’t known were lurking inside him. “Cindy’s good. Running this place just fine without me, no doubt. Not alone, though. Aranea’s always flitting in and out, dragging back things for her to fix up like she’s some kinda cat wanting attention.”

Noctis chokes on the beer when he imagines Aranea’s reaction to that comparison, and Cid takes the opportunity to glare at him and swipe the drink back. He mutters something about  _ unappreciative brats _ before he keeps going. “And your men are all making names for themselves. Were doing that before you showed up, too, for the record, but afterwards—” His gaze follows his words off into the middle distance. He sinks further down into the chair and crosses his ankles, the picture of quieter, deeper thought. “Not everyone can make that transition back out of hanging on by their fingernails and spite. World’s still healing, same with the people. Some parts are just better at it than others. You’d be proud of them, no doubt about it.”

_ I never doubted _ , Noctis wants to say, but he knows something inside him will break if he does. He copies Cid’s nonchalant pose instead and then steals back the beer.

* * *

Noctis has no idea where Cid got the motorcycle, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has one and that he’s giving the keys to Noctis. “If I see Reggie, I’ll tell him you’re open to seeing him,” Cid promises as Noctis climbs onto the motorcycle and starts the engine. He claps a hand on Noct’s shoulder and squeezes it almost hard enough to hurt. “He’ll be around here looking for you soon enough.”

* * *

Night falls on the road to Lestallum, and Noctis revels in the joy of Cid’s other news: the daemons really  _ are  _ gone. There hasn’t been a single sighting in Eos since the dawn, and even the people infected by the scourge had it burned out of them with the first rays of sunlight. Noctis can’t imagine that—truly quiet, peaceful nights. What would it be like, to camp in the Lucian wilds and not hear daemons howling in the distance? To not be worried about the possibility of the haven failing while you slept?

He wonders if, after ten years of darkness, anyone has come to love the night.

(He remembers sneaking out of the Citadel with Ignis to watch the stars. The stars here are different, so different that he can’t find any of the constellations Ignis pointed out for him.)

The wind tears at his hair and his clothes as he speeds down the dark, open road, faster than his father’s car could drive. Moonlight spills over the asphalt and lights his way to the city.

He stopped here before, with Luna, but under the night sky, the city has changed. Or maybe he is paying better attention now that he isn’t at her side, isn’t searching for the best parts to show her. Lestallum’s skyline is strange somehow, and he squints at it from the parking lot. It has been too long, so he can’t tell what it is that’s different, and there’s no telling anyway whether the difference is from before or after he was alive. He’s getting used to the fleeting permanence of this world, or at least he is learning how to not let his mind snag on the incongruities.

Lestallum is ablaze with light and people. The crowd is familiar, even if the people that form it are not. A small, selfish part of him wishes that someone he knows will be here, if only so he can pry more information from them about Ignis and Gladio and Prompto and—and  _ everything.  _ But it’s one thing to see Cid, who died somewhere around ninety, back at his beloved garage, looking forward to seeing his family again for the first time in decades, and another to hope that someone else has died just so he can satisfy his curiosity.

Cid said all three of them were still in Lestallum, from what he knew, and so Noctis is here. Until he soothes this building need to know or until Pryna tracks him down for Luna.

Lestallum isn’t anywhere near as big as Insomnia used to be, but it is filled with so many more people. He and Luna had seen only a handful of distant strangers when they left the Citadel. Then again, many of the people fled when the city fell, and then in the Night it was abandoned. Noctis thinks it likely that there are more recent, happier memories here, one of the handful of humanity’s strongholds, than anywhere else on Eos. There are also many more of the people who pop into existence for a few seconds and then pop back out, and that makes the city feel chaotic.

Noctis loses himself in the Lestallum crowds. He has no destination in mind, no beacon to guide him, so he prowls through the streets looking for people he recognizes and listening for anyone talking about what the living world is like. Noct finds none of the former but hears much of the latter, and the picture he pieces together—

It’s good. 

The people speak of the dawn, of course, but they also speak about small luxuries like no curfew and fresh produce at every meal. They complain about small nuisances like sunburns and inconsistent electricity in the new outposts and towns that are springing up and how disorienting it was to survive yet another world ending. 

But most people—the ones who’ve been reunited with family, lovers, friends—Noctis hears them tell the ones who passed on before them that the Night  _ did _ end. 

_ I didn’t believe you, but you were right. He brought back the dawn. _

_ She’s all grown up now. Still misses you. Always has your dog tags next to hers. _

_ I got to see the flowers bloom again. A whole field of them. I forgot they came in so many colors. _

He knew when he climbed the Citadel steps alone that he was doing the right thing. And here, lost in the neverending, anonymous crowds of Lestallum’s many dead, he understands it in a smaller, more intimate way.

* * *

Noctis lets his restless feet guide him and winds up on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the power plant. It’s beautiful all lit up at night, and he idly wonders if there is anyone inside to keep it running or if there even needs to be. There are fewer people in this part of town, and it’s nice to take a break from searching for a few moments, to let his mind go still. To wait, to see if now’s the time for Pryna to find him.

He lets the noise of the distant crowds drown out his thoughts, lets the occasional pair of footsteps drift in and out of range behind him. This is still in a way that the Crystal never was, where he drowned in power and destiny and magic so strong it scoured his soul like a river carving a canyon into the bedrock. He likes this much better than Bahamut’s Reflection.

The stillness is shattered by a familiar voice, low with tension and tightly leashed fear:  “—do we have left?”

Noctis spins around, and there—there is Ignis, looking younger than when he left him on the Citadel steps, his hair falling across his forehead, the scarring on his face only partly hidden by his visor. Ignis is carrying a cane, his gloved hand clenched around the head of it, and his clothes have seen much better days.

“Ignis?” It comes out barely a whisper, and Noctis has to swallow to find his voice. His feet are moving again, eating up the distance between them. “Ignis! You’re—”

“How many backup generators are there?” Ignis asks. He turns his head away from Noctis to better address the empty space beside him. 

Noctis stops, one hand half raised to touch his oldest friend. 

“We can light four sectors, perhaps five, with that, but the larger con—”

And then Ignis is gone, as suddenly as he appeared, and Noctis is left reaching toward empty air. 

* * *

Noctis tears through Lestallum, calling out Ignis’s name, darting between people whenever his peripheral vision catches a sudden shape or color or movement that wasn’t there a second ago. He didn’t pay much attention to the people who flicker in and out of view before, and now they’re the only thing he can see, and none of them are Ignis. 

He chases a sandy-haired man around a corner, only to catch him in profile and see that it isn’t Ignis  _ again  _ before the stranger vanishes. Noctis makes a noise that is pure frustration and barely resists the urge to slam his fist into the alley wall. He takes a few seconds, minutes, hours to calm down again, and when he turns around there is a woman standing at the crossroads, watching him.

Her hair is gray and her clothes are black, and beaded necklaces hang from her throat. Her face is—not quite ageless, but her dark eyes are far more unsettling. “Chosen King,” she says in a voice that doesn’t become familiar until she continues. “A dreamer you chase.”

“A dreamer?” Relief and disappointment in equal measure settle in his chest. “He’s alive, then? Ignis is still alive?”

Kimya, the witch of the woods, gives him the smallest of nods. “Hear us, few of them can. Touch this place, their dreams do. Catch them, you should not.”

If he still had the tranquility the Crystal gave him, Noctis would accept her words as what is meant to be. He used all of that tranquility to keep himself on the throne while his ancestors ran him through, and Luna is not here to grip his hand. 

Ignis is not here to advise him to exercise caution. “Why not?”

“Cruel to them, it would be,” she answers. “Disturb their peace, would you? Dead you are. Show them you are lonely, will you? Want them to join you here, do you?”

Her words pierce deep for all her tone is mild. No. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t—and he isn’t lonely. Maybe right now he is  _ alone _ , but Pryna will find him again. Luna will find him. His father (his mother) will find him. 

He just—it was unfair, for them to wait ten years and then only be able to keep him for a few hours. He learned so little about the men they became while he was gone that part of him still aches for that loss.

_ I made my peace _ , he told them, and that was true at their last campfire. He isn’t prepared for his heart changing in the aftermath.

* * *

Lestallum quiets down as the eastern sky goes from black to purple to pink, and Noctis watches the sun rise over the city from the rooftop of the Leville. Even though he only briefly experienced the Night, the coming of the dawn still makes his heart (his chest, where he has no scars) ache. Perhaps he should leave Lestallum, head back to Altissia and to Luna. And if Luna is not there, then Tenebrae. He’s certain she and Ravus will head back there eventually. Maybe Pryna will find him on the way. 

Maybe he should return to Insomnia and wait for his parents to seek him out.

The air shifts beside him. 

“—it’ll take?” Prompto asks. He kicks his legs over the edge of the roof, twenty and excited again for the future. He’s looking to the southeast, like if he stares long enough he will be able to see the lighthouse at Cape Caem. 

Noctis remembers this moment, this exact conversation. Prompto, eager to get to Altissia, to finally meet Luna, fretting about their first encounter like it is going to be the most important moment of his life. But a good one, not the horror Altissia actually turned out to be.

“Do you think she—” Prompto turns to look at him, but instead of finishing his question like he did when Noctis was alive, his words trail off. 

Noctis holds still. 

They stare at one another until Prompto’s eyes go wide and he makes a sound that is an awful cross between a whimper and denial. He whispers, “Noct?”

Noctis reaches out to grab his hand automatically, to comfort Prompto as he has so many times before, and Lestallum shatters around them.


	2. Chapter 2

The heat and humidity slam into him, the air thick enough to choke on, and choke Noctis does. His eyes burn, and he throws his arm across them to block out the light. He rolls onto his side, curling up as he gags on air that feels like it might suffocate him. There is a roaring in his ears that slowly resolves into the noise of—of voices. People.

Something touches his shoulder. Noctis flinches, and it withdraws immediately.

“Are you okay?”

Noctis lowers his arm, squints against the light and the shadow over him. It solidifies into a human silhouette.

“Hey, do you need a doctor?” Another voice, this one from behind him, closer, like they’re crouched at his side.

Noctis shakes his head, or tries his best when the scrape of stone against his cheek sends shocks all through his body. It is a small hurt, but the first pain he has felt since— 

“M’fine,” he says, or tries to say, as it comes out garbled, like his tongue has forgotten how to work. He blinks rapidly, and when his eyes finally adjust to the light he pushes himself up to sitting. It’s a struggle, but no one touches him again, and for that he’s grateful. 

The silhouette in front of him—a young woman with blonde hair that’s straight from Niflheim—holds out a bottle of water for him. “Here. Drink this. You look like the heat got to you.”

Has it? Now that she has said that, Noctis is aware of the heaviness of his tongue, the dryness of his throat, the sweat beading along his hairline and between his shoulder blades. He reaches out with an unsteady hand and takes the bottle from her. “Thanks.”

It’s cold, so cold it sends a jolt up through his arm. He unscrews the cap and takes cautious sips (his teeth ache) while he tries to process what’s happened. 

This doesn’t make sense. He and Luna traveled through the deserts of Leide without ever needing to drink or eat. The closest he’s ever felt to something like this is that time he almost got heat exhaustion and Gladio—

Noctis’s heart beats an unsteady rhythm in his chest, and his sudden awareness of the fact that he (still?) has a heart to beat makes his breath catch in his parched throat. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and lets his head drop between his shoulders. 

He felt things, in that place where he and Luna and so many others were dead. Touched her, smelled the sylleblossoms, enjoyed the sweet aftertaste of Cid’s beer. But the pain there was all emotional: heartache, guilt, worry. He doesn’t remember his teeth aching from cold or the sting of his skin dragged against stone or the weakness the heat burns into him. 

“Are you sure we can’t get you to a doctor?” the second voice says, and Noctis looks to see an older man, with dark skin and close-cropped hair still looking at him, worried.

That’s not a question to ask the dead. Certainly not twice.

Something too little like fear and too much like disbelieving, desperate hope rushes through him. Noctis gives the two strangers a shaky smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

* * *

Noctis staggers to a shaded alley and strips off the jacket of his suit before he sinks back to the ground. It’s a little better in the shade, but it’s still too humid for it to be much relief from the afternoon heat. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, undoes the top two buttons at his collar, closes his eyes, and tips his head back against the wall. That’s cooler, and he lets the stone at his back leech the warmth from his body.

This isn’t the Lestallum of the dead. He can tell now, by the small imperfections riddled through it: cracked pavement, peeling paint, or broken window shutters. No one appears and then disappears in sudden flashes, no one talks about being dead, and the inconvenient signs of mortality are everywhere. The smell of garbage sitting too long in the sun. Insects scuttling across the ground or buzzing in the air. Thirst and sweat. 

Noctis scrapes the heel of his palm hard against the ground. Pain. He turns his hand over, sees the flecks of dirt caught in skin, watches the pinpricks of blood well up. 

The Ring of the Lucii is gone, but the scar of where it used to sit is there. He presses his hand beneath his sternum and feels a ridge of scar tissue through his shirt that he did not have before.

Whatever happened, however it happened, he is in the living world again, with a body that others can see and touch. A body that truly does appear to be his, or what could have been his, if he had survived the dawn.

Cid said his friends were in Lestallum. And Noctis himself saw Ignis and Prompto here, or in their dreams, at least. 

Kimya’s warning rings in his ears, but Noctis pushes those thoughts aside. He doesn’t know how long he has, but he has endured enough to know he should act as if his time here is rapidly winding to a close. 

(He has always been on a deadline, even if he did not know it.)

Noctis climbs back to his feet, drapes his jacket over his arm, picks up his empty water bottle, and goes to find them.

* * *

His first instinct is to start asking strangers if they know where his friends are, and if that doesn’t work, to shout their names through the streets. But somehow he doubts that he will get far if he causes a commotion. Noctis remembers what it was like back in Insomnia when he was just a prince, on the occasions when he got swarmed by people who recognized him, how dangerously the crowd could build and press around him until he was extracted. 

He was just a prince, then; he is something else, now. Someone who shouldn’t exist. If there is anything guaranteed to set the city alight, it’s the return of the dead, Chosen King. Keeping his head down is as much for everyone else’s safety as it is for his.

Noctis finds a public drinking fountain and rinses off his face (his beard is still there) and hands (the scrape across his palm stings). He styles his hair as best he can with just water, ensuring that several strands fall across his face, obscuring his features a little. After he refills his water bottle, he heads for the closest building he can find with a fire escape. 

(He tosses his water bottle onto the first landing and tries to warp up after it. The magic doesn’t come, which he suspected might happen, but it is still a new loss. He reaches for the Armiger immediately afterwards, but that is gone as well. The Crystal’s magic truly was all used up to bring back the dawn.)

It takes three jumps to grab the ladder and pull it down, but he scales the fire escape quickly after that. Then he is on the roof, looking out over the city—

And he finally thinks he understands why Lestallum looked so different in the other world. The city is a massive, sprawling thing, spilling far beyond the boundaries that Noctis remembers. The architecture of the city had favored wide, flat-roofed buildings, where residents could string up clotheslines and set up rooftop gardens and could gather once the night fell and the heat dissipated. Now the roofs are crowded with other buildings, almost miniature homes or apartment complexes, all hastily constructed and utilitarian. It speaks of a desperation to have enough living space for a world of refugees. 

There are power lines everywhere, jumping from building to building and forming webs and highways that shoot off into the distance and stretch back to the power plant. Floodlights perch on the edges of buildings at regular intervals, still aimed at the streets below. 

Up here, it’s easy to see just how much the city has changed, and the weight of what it went through for ten years of darkness presses down on his shoulders. 

It takes some time to orient himself and find what used to be city hall. Cid said that his friends had made names for themselves, and from what little they were able to tell him before they marched to Insomnia, he figures the government is the best place to start.

* * *

The plaza outside the city hall is brimming with activity. Vendors with their carts piled high, people streaming in and out of the building, even a small group of protestors politely to the left, holding signs that are too far away for him to read the writing on. Noctis stays well back from the building—the security around city hall is subtle, but it is there. They’re well-positioned, attentive, uniformed in dark blue, and hold themselves like soldiers. Noctis can’t spot any weapons, but he’s certain they’re armed.

That means his preference to get on top of a nearby roof is a definite no. The last thing he wants is to be mistaken for a sniper, staying in place for hours with his eyes fixed on the main doors. But there are too many exits from the plaza for him to just pick one and stake it out, out of view of security. If he’s going to keep an eye out for his friends, or anyone he knows that would have information about them, he’s going to need to keep an eye on the main entrance to city hall itself. He needs a plan.

(He misses Ignis, so sharp that he has to take several deep breaths before the feeling fades enough that he can move.)

Noctis takes a leisurely stroll through the plaza, wandering from vendor to vendor, pausing now and then to take a drink of water while he observes the security positions and tries to figure out what is in and out of or partially hidden from their lines of sight. He could stroll up to the protestors and join their crowd, but there’s only about two dozen of them there. If they’re being watched closely, it would be easy to notice him joining in and bring too much attention to himself. 

(He debates the ethics of it for several minutes but ultimately does steal a single hat from a vendor when she is busy with other customers. He promises himself he will return it as soon as he can.)

It takes some doing, but Noctis eventually figures out a rotation of places he can settle into for twenty, thirty minutes at a time without rousing too much suspicion. When the guards swap out, he goes through those places again and occasionally weaves his way around the vendors. If he notices anyone staring at him too long, he leaves the plaza entirely and swings around other streets to re-enter from another direction.

(He starts to feel hungry, but the only things he brought back with him are his clothes, the picture Prompto let him take, and the water bottle he was given. He ducks out of the plaza to refill it and ignores the quiet ache in his stomach.)

The sun is sinking below Lestallum’s skyline, staining the sky pink and orange and gold, by the time Gladiolus steps out of the main doors.

Gladio is wearing the same deep blue as the security, though his outfit—uniform—is more elaborate. There is an unfamiliar insignia on his right breast and a smaller row of silver crests on his left, which probably denote some kind of rank. A sword hangs from his waist, and he does not carry a shield. 

He looks older now. His dark hair is longer and pulled back neatly, and a few small patches of gray show in his beard. There’s a thick scar down the left side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Gladio doesn’t look much like his father, but he  _ walks _ the way his father did. Long, confident strides, without the swagger Noctis remembers from their twenties. It’s the walk of a man who has no desire to prove to himself to others.

Noctis watches him cross through the plaza and disappear down one of the streets. He forces himself to wait until a count of ten before he follows after. Gladio is still easy to spot in a crowd since he is nearly a head above everyone else, so Noctis stays further back than his feet want to take him. 

He’s found Gladio, but he isn’t sure what to do now. Perhaps if Gladio passes through a less busy street, he can catch up and—Noctis doesn’t know what he will say. 

What  _ can _ he say, when he doesn’t understand how he came to be here or how long he will be allowed to stay? 

Gladiolus leads him down a busy street that’s brimming with foot traffic and restaurants where the seating sprawls out into the open air. Noctis has little first-hand experience with what conditions were like during the Night, but he remembers the conversations he overheard from the dead, and there is still something uplifting about seeing people outdoors in the fading sunlight, eating things that they  _ want _ instead of were given for rations or could scrape up into something barely palatable. He ignores the faint rumble of his stomach when the smell of something fried wafts into the air.

Noctis slows when Gladio raises his hand in greeting to someone in the crowd, then ducks down briefly only to straighten up—and suddenly there is a small girl, with dark hair and bright eyes, peeking over his shoulder and wrapping her arms around Gladio’s neck. Gladio kisses her cheek, and she copies him back.

Gladio slows and turns left, disappearing with the child under the level of the crowd, so Noctis swings to the right side of the street and pauses near a restaurant’s signage. He can’t even process the menu on display because he’s too busy searching across the street. Between gaps in the crowd, he sees Gladio sitting at a large restaurant table with the child— _ Gladio’s daughter _ , she must be Gladio’s, she has his eyes—on the bench next to him. There is a woman sitting across from him, someone Noctis has never seen before. 

She is around Gladio’s age, with a lean, muscular build, brown hair, and a smile that lights up her face when Gladio takes her hand from the table and presses a kiss to her knuckles like he’s one of the romantic heroes in the novels he used to read. Noctis can’t hear the woman’s laugh over the crowd, but he can  _ see  _ the way Gladio melts into the sound.

He remembers Gladio’s claim that he had someone, someone he wanted to introduce them all to in the sunlight. And whether or not this is that same woman, it’s clear that Gladio is  _ happy _ right now, the kind of happy that Noctis doesn’t remember seeing since before Altissia. 

No, since before Insomnia fell. 

Gladio is wearing the uniform of this new world with pride, and he has a family that adores him as much as he adores them. It is exactly what Noctis would have wished for him had he the power to grant it.

The little girl (three or four? maybe five?) stands on the bench and waves frantically with both hands. Noctis searches for what caught her attention, though it takes him a little longer to spot Ignis and Prompto from his angle across the street.

Ignis is wearing dark gray jeans and a pale blue t-shirt, and his bangs sweep low across his forehead. His visor is different from the one Noctis remembers. He doesn’t appear to be armed, which is almost as much a surprise as when Prompto raises their joined hands to wave back to Gladio’s daughter.

Prompto’s hair isn’t as long as it used to be, and his goatee has spread into a beard, shorter and less gray than Gladio’s. He still favors sleeveless shirts, but this one is dark red, and his jeans are black. He’s wearing a holster at his hip; Noctis can’t tell from his position if Prompto still wears a wristband on his right arm.

Prompto lets go of Ignis’s hand so he can sit next to Gladio and his daughter. The little girl immediately hurls herself at him, and Prompto scoops her up into a hug. Ignis smiles as he takes his seat next to Gladio’s wife and smiles more when Prompto nudges Ignis’s foot with his own, under the table. They’re all talking together, maybe not carefree but definitely relaxed, enjoying an evening out in the waning light.

His friends have rebuilt themselves without him, and the gratitude that washes through Noctis is enough to make his heart break under the weight of relief. 

Talcott said they drifted apart in the ten years of darkness, but the scene Noctis is watching now makes it clear they refused to let that happen again even though he left them behind for a second time. Here, in the middle of the city they helped protect, in the world they’ve been rebuilding, they’re  _ together _ . 

He left the future to them. They entrusted him with the sunrise. They all fulfilled their promises. 

And that is enough to satisfy the burning need to know that drove Noctis to Lestallum in the first place.

* * *

Noctis watches them from ordering all the way through dessert, and it’s only when Gladio claps his hand on Prompto’s shoulder and leans in to say something Noctis has no hope of hearing that Noctis finally decides it’s time to go. It close to full dark now, the sky purple and edging toward black, the streets illuminated by the floodlights from above, and the heat fading. Noctis heads back to the plaza in front of city hall. 

The vendor is still there, packing up for the night, so Noctis sneaks the temporarily stolen hat back onto her cart. He rolls his shirtsleeves down and puts his suit jacket on. A quick touch to the photograph to ensure it is safely in its place, and then he’s off to a water fountain to refill.

But where should he go now? Noctis mulls over the question and the inconvenience of the body he has at the moment. He wonders how much time has passed, if Luna is looking for him—

There is a familiar barking in the distance, as if his thoughts were the key he needs. Noctis looks up from his water bottle and spots a dark shape at the end of the street. 

It’s Umbra, not Pryna, but a messenger all the same.

He heads for Umbra at a brisk walk and tosses the water bottle into a garbage can as he passes it. Umbra must be impatient tonight because he keeps darting ahead, far enough that Noctis can barely keep him in his sight even when he starts jogging, then running. 

Noctis chases Umbra through the Lestallum crowds. The messenger leads him on a circuitous path away from the busy areas of the city and into quieter, sleepier, narrower streets. Umbra makes a sharp right down what turns out to be a shadowy, dead-end road, and vanishes from view by the time Noctis gets there and comes to a halt. 

Noctis peers into the darkness and tries to catch his breath. His left knee aches—how long has it been since he ran?—but there must be something here, even if he can’t see it right away. The faint glow behind many of the curtained or shuttered windows on this street makes him think this is a residential area. 

What could Umbra have brought him here for?

He is so caught up in trying to puzzle out the messenger’s purpose that he almost misses the sound of footsteps on the stone behind him. Noctis doesn’t have time to turn around before Gladio’s voice—low and faintly amused—cuts through the shadows.

“I thought people who got assigned to reconnaissance usually had their escape routes memorized,” he says, and it’s almost like before, when they were in their twenties and convinced they could handle whatever the world threw in their direction.

It takes every bit of Noctis’s willpower not to turn around and launch himself at his Shield, though part of him thinks it would be worth the risk of being skewered for the chance to touch him again. The witch’s warnings hum in the back of his mind, but—but what if  _ this _ is what Umbra brought him here for? 

He can’t warp anymore, and the only way out of this street is back, through Gladio. Noctis has never been able to shake off all his recklessness. 

He raises his hands, slowly, so Gladio can see he is unarmed, and turns around. Noctis tries to keep his smile under control, but he’s mostly sure he fails. “That’s why Ignis is usually in charge of that stuff, not me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the halfway point, more or less.


	3. Chapter 3

The Gladio that Noctis remembers best is twenty-three and cocky, prone to explosive bursts of emotion and quick to throw himself into action. The Gladio that Noctis remembers next is thirty-three and confident in his scars, determined to bear his king safely to the end. 

The Gladiolus that stands before him now breathes, “Noct,” and then his expression shutters into something hard and dangerous. 

Noctis wishes that this dead-end street had more light so he could better decipher the nuances of Gladio’s body language. Gladio does not reach for the sword at his side, but his weight shifts, and Noctis is keenly aware of the fact that he has no magic, no weapons. He almost says that he would prefer not to be run through again, but flippant has rarely been a good strategy when Gladio’s temper has the best of him. 

A thousand responses, questions, observations, spark through Noct’s mind, but the one he settles on is simple and honest. “You all look happy.”

Gladio’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know where they dug you up, but you’re a good likeness for him, I’ll give you that. What are you here for?”

Noctis has no context that will make any of those words coherent. His hands are still up, and he  _ is _ smiling after all, despite the tension in this moment. “Just to see you.”

“Is that the best you could come up with? They must have been low on options when they sent you.” Gladio sounds unimpressed, but he is still standing like he thinks Noctis is a threat.

“I didn’t plan on it. This Lestallum was an accident, and I followed Umbra here.”

Gladio’s eyes narrow. His glare has only gotten more impressive with time. It reminds Noctis of Clarus Amicitia, but he knows better than to say so right now. 

“What do you want?”

_ Nothing.  _ It is both true and not, because his heart is content knowing that the three of them have stuck together, and his hands itch with the need to reach out to Gladio. But why would Umbra bring him here, unless there is some conversation that he is supposed to have? If their roles were reversed, what would he want to hear from Gladio? 

A thought blossoms inside him, scraping along the insides of his ribs, and the edges are as sharp as they are delicate. 

“To tell you I’m okay,” Noctis says, and he is a little embarrassed by how the words stumble out of him. While he had some non-disastrous moments talking about his feelings, he is a lot less eloquent when he doesn’t have time to prepare. “Just. If you ever worry about me, or wonder, I’m okay. And I’ll find you guys again.” 

Luna found him, Ravus found her, he found Cid, so—he’ll find them, all of them, when it’s their turn, and he’s as sure of that as the knowledge he had to die in order for the sun to rise again. 

Gladio doesn’t flinch, exactly, but his weight shifts back, and for a second Noctis thinks he might leap away. Uncertainty flickers across Gladio’s expression, and Noctis holds his breath, waiting while Gladio looks him up and down again, searching for something Noctis isn’t sure he can provide.

“Do you still have it?” 

It’s a demand, not a question. There are only two things Noctis can think of that  _ it _ might be, and all he has left of the Ring of the Lucii is the scar on his hand. Noctis feels his smile soften at the edges, and he slowly reaches inside his suit jacket. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

He holds out the photograph that Prompto gave him for his fight with Ardyn, and after a silent moment, Gladio takes it from him with a steady hand. It can’t be easy to see the details with how dimly lit the street is, but Gladio peers at it closely, like maybe he’ll find something in it that he couldn’t find in Noct’s face.

“Prompto searched for this for days,” Gladio says after a long moment of silence. His voice is quiet, brittle. “We couldn’t find it after I took you down from the throne. He was—”

The way he cuts the sentence off makes Noctis’s heart ache. 

Gladio clears his throat, and when he looks up, the cracks in his fa ç ade are painfully wide. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?”

“I don’t know how it happened, but it’s real, Gladio.”

Gladio was always graceful despite his bulk, and it is no different now when he closes the distance between them and pulls Noctis into his arms.

Noctis surrenders to the embrace, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against Gladio’s shoulder, relishing his warmth and his solidity. He doesn’t complain at how difficult it is to breathe, or the way Gladio’s blunt nails dig into his back. He simply wraps his arms around Gladio as best he can when he feels him trembling.

The Gladio that Noctis remembers has generally been a silent crier, unless fury was fueling him. That has not changed. Noctis holds onto him until Gladio goes still again and his breathing slows, and then he only steps back far enough that he is less crushed. Gladio doesn’t let him out of reach. Noctis wipes quickly at his own face and smiles up at Gladio. “So you missed me, huh?”

The teasing tone of the question comes out muddied, but Gladio still laughs, rough and uneven. “Every godsdamned day.”

The honesty—and the pain behind it—lances through him as sharp as guilt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Noct—” Gladio finally lets go of him and carefully hands the picture back. Despite the crushing hug, the picture is undamaged. “You saved us. All of us. The whole fucking world. Don’t ever apologize.”

Noctis swallows down his first, second, third responses and finally settles on a nod. The last thing he wants is to get into a fight about where blame belongs. He doesn’t know how long he has until he hears Umbra barking again. He glances down at the photograph he’s still holding. “Do you think Prompto would want this back?” Noctis wouldn’t trade it for the world, but he would give it back to Prompto. If he had searched for it, for  _ days— _

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Noctis looks up quickly, and Gladio points toward one of the buildings behind Noct. “That’s where he and Ignis live.”

Perhaps Umbra had more than one reason to bring him here. The house is tall and narrow, like most of Lestallum’s buildings, with neighbors pressed close. “Where are they, anyway?”

“I asked them to escort my family home safely.” Gladio raises an eyebrow when Noctis frowns at him. “ _ Someone  _ followed me to a restaurant and lurked through most of the dinner before trying to disappear.”

Embarrassment makes his ears and the back of his neck go hot. How would that have looked to Gladio, who was meeting up with his family and friends? Particularly a Gladiolus who has enemies, ones he thought would have him tailed, ones he thought might spring a lookalike on him. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

Gladio grins, all teeth. “You’d have to work a lot harder to scare me.”

Noctis laughs, and for a moment it’s—

It isn’t  _ easy  _ to forget that he isn’t twenty, not with Gladio’s beard going gray and his neck sporting that unfamiliar scar, not when he’s wearing a uniform that looks nothing like the Kingsglaive fatigues Noctis last saw him in. Not when Noctis has his own, new scars and the world looks nothing like the last two times he left it. But it’s  _ familiar _ : Gladio’s playful arrogance and the way his smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Noctis is hit with another wave of relief, of longing, of grief so strong it closes up his throat. He doesn’t realize he’s dropped his gaze until he feels Gladio’s hand, warm and reassuring, on his shoulder. “Let’s get you off the street,” he says. “I’ll apologize to Ignis later.”

Noctis isn’t sure what to make of that, not until Gladio guides him toward the house he said belonged to Ignis and Prompto and unsheathes his sword. It’s impressive how little noise Gladio makes when he jams the point of his sword between the front door and the frame, breaks the lock, and swings the door open. He does it so quickly that it’s clear he’s done it many times before, and that  _ is _ new, because mostly Noctis remembers Gladio functioning more like a human battering ram than anything. He normally doesn’t treat his swords like crowbars. 

Noctis follows Gladio inside the house. Gladio finds the light switch while they both slip their shoes off, and Noctis blinks against the sudden brightness. 

The entryway is small but tidy, with a bench along the right side that has shelves beneath to store shoes and slippers. Noctis puts on the pair Gladio sets out for him and steps into the hallway instead of waiting, curiosity fueling his steps. Directly ahead is a staircase that leads up to the darkness of the second floor, and the hallway opens up past the bench into what is likely a living room, but the thing that catches his attention is the framed picture hanging on the light gray wall, just before the stairs.

It’s a candid photo, with everyone looking somewhere off frame, attention directed away from the photographer. Based on the warmth and angle of the lighting, it was taken either early morning or just before nightfall. Gladio sits on the far side of a worn, wooden bench, his arm slung across the back, his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder and pulling her in close. Her eyes are half shut, her hair falling across Gladio’s shoulder, and Noctis notices her smile before he registers the swell of her stomach. Ignis sits on her other side, legs crossed, his fingers interlaced so his hands rest on his knee. The seat beside him is open—Prompto’s spot, no doubt, before he got up to take the photograph—but the way the red-gold light falls on it makes the space feel occupied, not empty.

Noctis senses, more than sees, Gladio hovering next to him. He wets his lips and asks, “What’s her name?”

“Livia.” Noctis can hear the smile in Gladio’s voice. He answers the next questions without Noct having to ask them. “Our daughter is Moraea. She’s four.”

Noctis resists the urge to reach out, to trace that empty-but-not space of light in the photograph with his fingertips. “How long has it been?”

“Seven years, plus a couple weeks.”

It sounds impossible when Gladio says it, for seven years to have passed since his ascension, for seven years to have gone by while he and Luna explored the Eos of the dead, for him to wander on his own through Hammerhead, to search for answers in Lestallum. And yet Gladio has said it, and if it is seven years since the Night ended, then it is seventeen since he was pulled into the Crystal and began Bahamut’s Reflection.

The math works its way through his veins, too slow and steady to be horror. Between the long years of his disappearance and his death, he has been out of their lives longer than he was in them. He had Ignis for sixteen years; Gladio only warmed up to him for eleven; and Prompto had just five. 

Gladio is forty now, and the last birthday Noctis remembers having is half of that. 

Noctis is aware, suddenly, of the distance, the  _ time _ between their desperate lunge for Gralea, their return to Insomnia, and the world shattering in the other Lestallum. Kimya’s words prickle up his spine, and Noctis—

Gladio’s hand is on his shoulder again, squeezing. His voice has gone soft and low, and a distant part of Noctis wonders if this is the voice he uses when his daughter needs to be soothed. “There are more pictures in the living room, if you want to look.”

It is enough to pull Noctis from the gaps where he existed out of time and back into the present. He nods a little, unable to find his voice, and finally tears his gaze away from the picture. Gladio turns on another light so Noctis can look around.

The living room is elegantly arranged, the couches, chairs, coffee table, and bookshelves carefully placed to promote an ease of movement. The dominant colors are white and black and gray, but there are bold, colorful accents sprinkled here and there, and Noctis can see Prompto’s hand in them. There are photographs everywhere, tucked onto shelves, on the walls, never enough to feel overwhelming, and never so rigidly placed as to take on the air of a gallery or museum. At least two shelves are dedicated entirely to albums that Noctis wants to pull down with him to the floor so he can spread them out and look at them all at once. 

He focuses, instead, on the pictures on display, and with them he cobbles together the story of the seven years he missed: Gladio and Livia’s wedding, a newborn Morea, Cindy and Aranea shoulder-to-shoulder at Hammerhead, and many sunrises. He finds a picture of Gladio and Iris—when had she gotten that tall?—both laughing while they roughhouse in the sunlight. There are several pictures of Prompto and Ignis together, just the two of them or in a larger group, and it doesn’t take long for him to find a close up of them, both in suits, their temples pressed together and looking happier than he remembers ever seeing them.

Somewhere behind him, Noctis hears the quiet rumble of Gladio’s voice, but it’s not directed at him, so he lets the noise dissipate around him like a breeze.

Noctis doesn’t expect to find himself in any of the pictures. He isn’t searching for himself because he already knows how his story ended, so he is surprised when he comes across his twenty-year-old self, not once, but twice. The first is a shot of the four of them, crammed in close together for a selfie. There’s a slice of the Regalia and some asphalt behind them, and a faint memory of a hunt gone well somewhere in Duscae brushes across his mind. They all look a little worn, hair out of place, color in their cheeks, relief and pride from a hard fight won evident in their expressions. 

(Noctis finds himself drawn to Ignis’s unscared face and clear eyes. He wonders if that is the right shade of green or if Prompto did something to the color before printing out the photo. He is uneasy at his own uncertainty. The picture in his jacket doesn’t show Ignis close enough to examine the true color of his eyes.)

The second photo is just of him, a candid that catches him in profile. It takes a moment for him to recognize Steyliff Grove. His head is tilted up as he looks at the ancient magic above them, the barrier that keeps the ruins from flooding with water and drowning them all. The magic casts a blue-white light across his face, highlighting his brow, his cheek, his lips. It changes the color of his eyes into an otherworldly blue, one that reminds him too much of the inside of the Crystal. 

Noctis is so caught up in the the past and the future he didn’t live to see to register the sound of the door opening, but Ignis’s irritated voice yanks him back into the present. “What was so urgent you had to break the door?”

His heart stumbles over its own beat, and Noctis turns around. Gladio has placed himself at the entrance to the living room, his body blocking the view between Noctis and the other person— _ people _ —he can hear in the entryway, undoubtedly trading shoes for house slippers. 

“Sorry, Iggy. Look—just trust me. I know this is going to seem impossible.” 

“What’s the big mystery you couldn’t tell us over the phone?” That’s Prompto’s voice, more curious than anything. Before Noctis can really prepare himself for it, Prompto slips around Gladio—

And he freezes when he meets Noctis’s gaze. The color drains from his face with alarming speed, and something like guilt knifes its way into Noct’s heart. It’s worse than that moment on top of the other Leville, when Prompto had  _ seen _ him and whimpered.

Noctis reaches out toward Prompto again without conscious thought. “Prompto, it’s all right. I’m—”

He doesn’t get to finish because Prompto hurls himself into Noct’s arms. The world does not shatter when their bodies connect. Noctis staggers back, and momentum sends them crashing into one of the bookshelves. It knocks the wind from Noct’s chest and one of the pictures topples off a shelf and onto the floor, but they stay upright. Noctis can’t breathe and it doesn’t matter because Prompto is pressed up against him, gripping him like the world will end if he lets go.

“Noct,” he says, “ _ Noct _ .” His voice cracks the second time, and he presses their foreheads together as he begins to weep. 

Noctis closes his eyes, but it doesn’t keep his own tears at bay. He holds Prompto close and runs a hand along his spine in short, uncertain strokes, wanting to comfort him and not being sure if it’s actually helping. It probably  _ isn’t _ helping, if the way Prompto shudders is any indication, but he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Noctis?” 

Ignis’s voice doesn’t break, but the tension in it makes Noct’s chest go hollow. He slides his hand up to the back of Prompto’s head so he can tug him down, against his shoulder. Once that’s done, he can see Ignis. 

He has gone still, his lips pressed thin, his gloved hands stiff at his sides. Gladio stands nearby, all the concern in his expression directed toward Ignis.

Noctis swallows and does his best to speak evenly, confidently, because Ignis can’t see his face. At a distance, the only way Ignis can identify him is sound, and Noctis doubts there are any recordings of his voice Ignis could use to refresh his memory, unlike the pictures that everyone else can see. “Hey, Specs.”

Ignis flinches, his hands curling into fists. His throat works, but in the end he says nothing. 

“I know it’s—a lot,” Noctis says, feeling a little helpless, wanting to close the distance but entirely unwilling to untangle himself from Prompto, even though the bookshelf digs into his back painfully. “If you want proof—”

Ignis interrupts then, his voice hoarse. “They both believe it’s you. That is proof enough for me.” 

And then Ignis is stepping forward, guided by the sound of Noct’s voice and Prompto’s hitching breaths. His hands are careful, cautious, as the first settles at the small of Prompto’s back and the second finds Noct’s upper arm. His touch is gentle, his hand skimming up Noct’s shoulder, his neck, like if he applies too much pressure Noctis will fracture and disappear beneath his hand. 

Noctis feels the tremor in Ignis’s fingers despite his leather glove, and when Ignis reaches his jaw, he lets go of Prompto’s hair so he can cover Ignis’s hand with his own. “Missed you,” he says, simple and raw.

Tears slip down Ignis’s cheeks, but he is smiling. It is almost identical to their final moments alone at the haven, but this time there is something almost like wonder in Ignis’s expression. “As did we all, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Somehow, they make it to the couch. Noctis is wedged between Gladio, to his left, and Ignis, to his right. Prompto sits on the coffee table across from Noctis so their feet tangle together and their knees bump each other. Noctis would tease them about not giving him space to breathe, except he doesn’t  _ want _ that space. He wants to be surrounded by them, to drink in their voices, their warmth. He wants to be selfish and linger in their presence without a grand destiny pushing him toward his end.

“How is this possible?” Ignis asks once everyone is composed again. “Forgive me, Noct, but we burned your body ourselves.”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Noctis repeats what Kimya said about dreamers intersecting the Eos of the dead, how they flickered in and out of sight, but he keeps her warnings to himself. He doesn’t want to trouble them with that now. “I saw you first, Iggy. Near the power plant, talking to someone about backup generators.”

Ignis lets out a quiet, hissing breath, and Prompto takes one of his hands. “An old mistake, one I wish were just a nightmare. It has been some time since I had that dream.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure. Months. Perhaps the end of last year.”

Noctis decides to let the matter go. If Ignis wishes it were a nightmare, then it is better not to satisfy his curiosity. “I couldn’t find you after that. But I saw Prompto.”

“Let me guess. Roof of the Leville?” His smile is lopsided, pained.

“Yeah. We were talking about heading for Altissia. I think—you saw me.”

Ignis’s fingers curl around Prompto’s. 

Prompto’s laugh is too shaky to be sincere. “Sure did.” He looks away, beyond and above Noct’s shoulder, as he says, “Still had that sword through your chest.”

Noctis remembers the noise that Prompto made, right before he whispered  _ Noct,  _ and his throat burns at the cruelty of what Prompto saw. He opens his mouth to apologize, but the look Gladio gives him has him skipping past the painful moment. He doesn’t want to make any of them dwell on the details of his death more than they must.

“I reached out, and when I touched you—” he shrugs, not sure how to explain the way the world shattered and then reformed around him, “—after that, I woke up here. It took me the rest of the day to find Gladio, and he led me to you two.”

That pulls Prompto’s focus back to him. “You’ve only been here a day?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I had that dream weeks ago. Two nights before the anniversary of y—the Dawn.”

Noctis frowns a little, but in the end he just says, “Time was different there. Like it was in the Crystal.”

It isn’t a helpful explanation for anyone except him, but it does get them asking, in hesitant, careful words, about what it was like after he passed on. He gives them every reassurance he can think of so they know he was—is?—well. He tells them of the vows he exchanged with Luna, of wandering Eos with her, of Luna’s reunion with Pryna and Ravus, and of his encounter with Cid. He admits that he hasn’t seen his parents yet, but he believes he will find them.

The last sentiment is the one that kills the conversation, and Noctis doesn’t understand why until Gladio, always quick to cut to the heart of the matter, asks, “Are you going back?”

His tone is casual, but there’s no mistaking the tension in the set of his shoulders. Noctis looks to Prompto, whose complexion has gone sallow, and then to Ignis, who has gone so still Noctis isn’t sure if he’s actually breathing.

_ Cruel to them, it would be. Disturb their peace, would you? _

He remembers thinking, before he found Gladio, that he needed to act as if he only had a limited amount of time in the living world. It only now occurs to him that he may very well end up leaving them for a third time. And because he doesn’t even understand the mechanism for how he got here, it’s entirely possible he will disappear on them in much the same way, with little to no warning and at the behest of forces more powerful than him.

“I don’t know how to,” Noctis says, which is true enough since he refuses to contemplate the only certain way. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

Ignis settles his free hand on Noct’s knee. Noctis isn’t certain if it is meant to be reassuring for him or for Ignis, and he doesn’t care either way. “Then let us make use of what time we have.”

* * *

They talk. Or rather, Noctis asks them questions, and they tell him about the world he entrusted them with rebuilding. They have seven years of stories, of  _ life _ , from falling in love to rearranging the world’s political structure. They explain the scar on Gladio’s neck (assassination attempt by those who wish to reestablish a monarchy) and why they supported Lestallum as the new capital (it was humanity’s stronghold during the Night and the only major city not weighed down by ghosts of a previous nation) and how the rebuilding of Insomnia is going (slowly, though there is already a tomb for him and Luna there) and the ways in which this fledgling government builds and improves upon the partial democracy of Accordo. 

(Noctis remembers telling Prompto how he wanted to break down the borders of the world, and they have done so, reshaping Eos with his name and in his memory.)

When Noct’s stomach growls just before one in the morning, Ignis has to be persuaded that yes, Noctis would rather have him next to him than working in the kitchen, and that if Ignis insists on feeding him, leftovers will do. Ignis grudgingly reheats some curry and serves them all tea, and Noctis thanks him both for the food and for indulging him. He thanks Ignis again, once he has finished eating, and tells him it tastes just as good as he remembers.

Noctis asks about Iris, Talcott, Cindy, Aranea, Cor, Monica, Dustin, Dave, Sania, Biggs, Wedge, Weskham—everyone he can think to name. Not every story there is happy, and for the ones that aren’t, Noctis sets their names aside to seek out later. He soaks up every detail about their lives, the world, as he can, and something like peace settles over him the more he listens.

His friends have done everything he hoped for and more, and Noctis is overwhelmed by his pride and his love for them. He wants to talk until they have told him everything, until they have transferred seven years of living to him, but this body has limits that his previous one did not. 

Gladio is the one to call an end to it shortly after four, when Noctis yawns twice during his own question about the upcoming elections. “Bedtime, Noct,” he says in the familiar tone that means he intends to win any ensuing verbal fight. “You’re about to keel over.”

Noctis looks to Prompto automatically for assistance, but Prompto gives him a little smile and shakes his head. “Gladio’s right, you’re practically an old man.”

“We could all use some rest,” Ignis adds before Noctis can even try to appeal to him. “I do believe it has been a taxing day for everyone.”

That much Noctis can concede. In the end, it only takes a few minutes for him to be ushered upstairs to the guest room and into a pair of Prompto’s spare sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Ignis says he will make Noctis whatever he likes for breakfast, and Prompto tells him they can look at the photo albums afterward. Gladio studies him for a moment and just tells him he doesn’t get to hog the entire bed tonight and that he will shove him onto the floor if he tries.

That gets Noctis to laugh. Gladio grins back and then deliberately turns off the light and shuts the bedroom door. 

Their voices start up immediately, low and muffled, and Noctis knows that they are talking about him. It’s entirely unsubtle, and it would be a little insulting if it weren’t endearing, so Noctis decides to pick one side of the bed instead of settling into the middle out of spite. He used to hate it when they would go off to the side to talk about him, but right now he can think of no surer sign of their regard for him. He will not begrudge them that.

He intends to stay awake so he can tease Gladio about how fatherhood has changed him, but the darkness of the room and the quiet hum of their voices quickly pull him under.

* * *

Noctis wakes to darkness, sudden and disoriented. It takes a few heartbeats to remember where he is, to put together the dip in the mattress and the heat radiating to his right as Gladio in bed beside him. Part of him had suspected he might dream, but nothing lingers in his mind, either from his life before or the world of the dead, so that is not what startled him out of sleep. He listens hard, but the neighborhood itself is quiet. Gladio is still deeply asleep beside him, which rules out any noises from the city loud enough to rouse him.

Noctis rolls onto his side. He is almost asleep again when an impatient, familiar barking from downstairs yanks him upright and out of bed. 

Pryna.

_ Can you find me again, when she’s ready? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter to go.


	4. Chapter 4

Noctis heads for the bedroom door, his bare feet a whisper on the carpet. For a moment he considers getting dressed again, but something in the silence after Pryna’s barking reminds him of the deadlines, known and unknown, that governed his life. His heart is beating, steady and unstoppable, like a countdown, and he is fairly certain he knows what is awaiting him downstairs.

He reaches for the doorknob, turns it silently, and glances back toward the bed. It’s too dark to make out many details, but Gladio is sketched out in silhouette, caught in the arms of a deep sleep.

Noctis thinks of the photograph tucked away in his suit jacket and feels a small pang of regret that he got too caught up in their reunion to ask Prompto if he wanted to keep it. Gladio knows about it, though, and Gladio will make sure it gets back into Prompto’s hands.

The door opens silently, and Noctis eases his way out of the bedroom. No one else is in the hallways, which means that Gladio isn’t the only one who couldn’t hear the messenger’s barking. He heads for the stairs and is almost unsurprised at the faint light reflecting off the walls. It spills up the staircase, like a rising tide, and Noctis follows it down.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret is limned in gold. She stands in Ignis and Prompto’s living room with her hands clasped in front of her, peering close at one of the pictures lining the wall. A smile tugs at her lips, and there is a softness in her expression that makes Noctis’s heart ache.

Pryna’s white fur reflects the light when she trots over and headbutts Noctis’s leg. Noctis reaches down absently to scratch between her ears.

“Luna.”

She straightens, and when she turns to look at him, the smile that was threatening at the corner of her mouth spills over. “Noctis. I’m glad you found them.”

“So am I.” The words aren’t nearly enough to explain the depth of his gratitude. He clears his throat but can’t quite keep the his voice steady. “Where’s Ravus?”

“With our parents.”

Noctis never met the last king-consort of Tenebrae. He does remember Queen Sylva. Her strong, gentle hands on his back while she and Luna worked the gods’ magic so he could walk again. The way her body toppled over when the sword was pulled from it. Ravus on his knees over her body, and Luna, her hand falling away from Regis, standing still with soldiers and fire blossoming around her—

Luna can read the question in his eyes. “I have not seen your parents, Noctis. I’m sorry.”

Noctis shakes his head and finds he doesn’t have to dig too deeply to find a smile. “It’s all right. I’m glad you found yours.”

He steps forward, and Pryna goes with him. The messenger settles at Luna’s feet, and Noctis reaches out for both her hands. He is surprised by how insubstantial her hands feel in his loose grip for all the warmth radiating from them. She is campfire embers in his palms, only the heat stays a prickle instead of turning sharp and burning. He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, and it is like kissing starlight.

When he pulls back, he says, “You’re not here.”

“Not the same way you are.” Her fingers tighten, ghostlike, on his.

At the edges of his vision, the living room slowly fades, the details smudging together. It does not feel like being pulled into the Crystal, when the switch from one realm to the next was like crashing through glass: sharp, violent, unmistakable. It does not feel like the world shattering around him when he plunged back into the world of the living. This is a blurring of lines, the gradual slip between wakefulness and dreaming. He feels the carpet turn soft, shapeless beneath his soles and marvels at the power Luna carries draped across her shoulders like a mantle.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to speak with Ravus privately,” Luna says, but there is something beyond gratitude lurking in the depths of her eyes. It makes him feel—weighed and measured, almost. Her voice is soft, but her next words pierce the very heart of him. “Are you ready to leave?”

_No._

He thinks of their faces when Gladio asked _Are you going back?_ He thinks of how cruel it would be for them to wake to sunlight and his absence yet again. He thinks of all the questions he didn’t get to ask them.

He thinks of all the photos that Prompto promised to show him.

“You couldn’t—” Noctis swallows, to keep his voice from breaking. “Couldn’t you just—stay here? With me?”

Prompto, dreaming, had the strength to pull him back into this world. That brief moment of contact was enough to take the ashes in his tomb and forge them into a new-old shape.

Why aren’t their joined hands enough for Noctis to do the same for Luna? If anyone deserves a second chance to walk Eos, it is her.

Luna’s hands grow heavier, more solid, in his, even as the mortal world further loses it shape along the edges. The light is slowly growing brighter, though Noctis can’t tell if it’s from Luna and the other world or the first hint of the living world’s sunrise. Luna gently pulls one hand out of his grip so she can reach up and cup his cheek. Her fingers play with the bit of hair that has fallen in front of his ear. Her smile has faded into something knowing, wise in the way only someone who has shouldered the fate of the world can be. “I do not wish to.”

He breathes in sharply, but she brushes her thumb across his lips, and he locks his surprise behind his teeth. If anyone deserves the chance to speak her mind uninterrupted, it is Luna.

“Everyone I have ever loved has passed, Noctis,” she says, and there is no self-pity in the statement, however much it tears at him to think of the life she dedicated to and lost for the Six. For his sake. “I have missed them dearly. And now that I have had my reunion with you…”

He leans into her touch, drinking in the warmth of her hand while she searches for the right words to express precisely what she means to say. Her hands are less campfire embers now. They are a summer sunrise: warm and brimming with potential. 

“There are still others that I wish to find and so many things I wish to say to them. And—” Luna’s gaze drifts away from him, to a point beyond his shoulder. She lets go of his hand. “—I would not begrudge you the same thing.”

_“Noct!”_

He turns so abruptly the in-between world blurs into streaks. But when it all settles, as much as a place like this can, there is—

“Prompto!”

Prompto is in a ratty tank top, shorts, and glasses, and his hair is mussed from sleep. He rushes, stumbles across the uneven, not-quite-there ground, every movement bordering on something between desperation and panic.

This time, Noctis is ready when Prompto crashes into him. He catches Prompto and keeps them both upright, but instead of going in for a hug, Prompto grips his shoulders so tight Noctis thinks Prompto’s nails might tear holes in the shirt. Behind Prompto, the last lines that sketch out his and Ignis's home waver, start to unfurl.

“You _asshole._ ” Prompto’s voice is thick with fury and unshed tears. “At least let us say goodbye again. You owe Ignis and Gladio that much. You can’t just—”

Whatever else Prompto was about to say is cut off when Luna carefully eases one of his hands off of Noctis’s shoulder. Prompto blinks rapidly, like someone shined a flashlight right in his face, but his expression settles into something like wonder. “Lady Lunafreya?”

She steps around Noctis, still holding Prompto’s hand, and there is no mistaking the pleasure in her smile. “Prompto Argentum. I have wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

So many things have changed in the years Noctis was gone, but it seems as if Prompto can still be caught off guard by a kind word. Prompto ducks his head, the closest he can get to a bow when he has a hand on each of them. “So have I. I—I’m sorry we couldn’t before.”

The guilt and regret in Prompto’s voice has Noctis reaching up to take Prompto’s other hand. Prompto tightens his grip on Noctis’s shoulder briefly, but in the end he lets Noctis draw it  away. He keeps hold of Noctis’s hand, but Noctis doesn’t mind. Prompto is solid in a way this in-between space hasn’t been. His presence is an anchor, so Noctis laces their fingers together to keep better hold of him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Luna says firmly, but the edges of her words soften. “And I am not the only one who wished to see you.”

Pryna barks and wedges her way between their legs to get closer to Prompto. A startled laugh escapes Prompto when she jumps up and paws at his thighs. “Tiny!” Prompto lets go of Luna’s hand so he can card his fingers through Pryna’s fur.

But for all his obvious delight, there is still tension in the way Prompto holds himself. Luna must see it, too, because after Pryna settles down at Prompto’s feet to better accept his petting, Luna reaches out to rest her hand over Prompto’s heart. Prompto glances up at her, and Noctis catches a reflection of Luna’s light his eyes.

“Prompto,” she says, and her voice is gentle, “You do not need to be afraid.”

The Prompto that Noctis remembers best would have laughed, unsteady and nervous, insisting that he was fine, everything was fine. But this Prompto simply looks between them both and squeezes Noctis’s hand tighter. “Are you going to leave us?” he asks, and his voice is quiet and steady.

This time, Noctis answers: “No.”

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. “Thank fuck,” he whispers. His shoulders slump, shake in relief.

Luna drops back so this time Noctis can be the one to pull Prompto into a crushing hug.

* * *

Their goodbye is brief. Noctis gathers Luna in his arms, presses kisses to her forehead, her lips; he leans down so she can do the same to him. She whispers _you deserve to be happy, Noctis,_ in his ear, and he answers _so do you._ The smile she gives him is more radiant than any sunrise he has ever seen, bright enough it nearly burns away the ache that forms in his chest when he steps back.

This time, Noctis is not desperately reaching for her as they are pulled apart; this time, when they say goodbye, he believes it when she says that she is always with him.

He drops down to one knee and offers Pryna his hand for a second time. “Will you find me again, when I’m ready?”

Pryna gives him her paw.

* * *

The world reforms, line by line, the pieces growing sharper, more solid as the image of Luna and Pryna fade away. When the world finally settles, Noctis and Prompto are shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room, which is lit up by the sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s a little disorienting but before Noctis can voice his concern about the passage of time, Prompto sways dangerously.

“Easy there,” Noctis says and catches Prompto by the elbow before he can go down. It’s quick work to get him on the sofa even though Noctis can feel how hard he’s trembling. Prompto isn’t pale, exactly, but he isn’t trying to brush off Noctis’s help or insist he’s okay, which is definitely a sign that he isn’t.

Worry has Noctis raising his voice and hoping that everyone else is nearby. “Ignis, Gladio, can I get a little help here?”

Before he even finishes asking the question, there is a clatter upstairs, then the sound of someone running, feet pounding overhead. Noctis turns toward the staircase in time to see Ignis rushing down it, one hand on the wall and the other on the banister, moving fast enough that for a split second Noctis is afraid he might trip. “Noctis? Where’s Prompto?”

“M’here, Iggy.”

Prompto sounds like someone took a shredder to his larynx, and Ignis actually moves _faster._ Noctis steps out of the way so Prompto can grab Ignis’s hands and draw Ignis onto the couch beside him. Ignis lets Prompto keep one hand, but the other he ghosts along Prompto’s arm.

“Are you hurt?” That tone of voice from Ignis is almost nostalgic—one part demanding, two parts worry—or it would be, if it weren’t for the note of genuine fear lurking underneath the question.

Prompto clears his throat. It doesn’t do much good. “No. Yeah, we’re fine. I think. Can I get some water?”

“On it,” Noctis says, and he hurries to the kitchen. He finds the cupboard with the glasses on the first try—some things never change, and apparently Ignis’s preference for a particular kitchen arrangement is one of them—and fills a glass with water from the tap.

When Noctis comes back to the living room, Ignis has an arm around Prompto’s shoulders. Prompto is slumped against him, face hidden against Ignis’s neck, and Ignis looks like he wants nothing more than to curl around Prompto completely.

“Hey, Prompto.”

Prompto mutters something but doesn’t pull away from Ignis, so Noctis decides it’s his turn to sit on the coffee table across from them. His knees brush against theirs. “I’ve got the water when you’re ready.”

“What happened?” Ignis sounds a little calmer now, though not by much.

Noctis rolls the glass of water between his hands and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “I heard Pryna barking. She woke me up. When I came downstairs, Luna was here. She’s gone now,” he adds when Ignis turns his face toward him, away from Prompto. “Anyway, she—well, we were talking, and the world kind of...”

He trails off there, uncertain how to describe what happened in the living room.

“I saw Noct,” Prompto says. He shifts on the couch so he isn’t hiding anymore and then goes still when Ignis grips him tighter. “I mean, not at first. I got up to check on him, just before sunrise. You weren’t in bed.”

That last part’s directed at at him, almost sharp enough to be an accusation. Noctis winces but he holds out the water. Prompto’s expression softens a little when he accepts the glass. Once he’s downed half of it, he resumes his side of the story. “I saw the light coming from downstairs, so I thought maybe you were there. And you were, but you were—it was freaky magic shit, Noct. Scared the hell out of me. The world went all weird, and you were there, but I couldn’t tell you were talking to Lady Lunafreya until she took my hand.”

Prompto’s voice starts to give out at the end there, so Noctis picks up the thread while Prompto finishes the rest of his water. “Luna and I talked a little. I’m—I’m staying, Specs. For good this time.”

“We thought you—” Ignis lets out a shuddering breath and runs his bare fingers through Prompto’s hair like it’s the only thing that is keeping him anchored. "Prompto’s shouting woke Gladio and myself. By the time we got downstairs you both were gone.  Gladio reported seeing some residual light, but we couldn’t—it’s been three days.”

Horror rises like bile in Noctis’s throat. _Time was different there. Like it was in the Crystal._

“Fuck, Iggy.” Prompto shoves the glass back at Noctis and turns in Ignis’s grip so he can wrap his arms around Ignis. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. Are you okay?”

Ignis brushes a kiss against Prompto’s hair. “You’ve returned. Both of you. That’s all that matters to me.”

It’s a valiant effort to regain composure, so Noctis keeps his mouth shut about the tremor in Ignis’s voice.

“Where’s Gladio?” Noctis asks when Ignis finally eases his white-knuckled grip on Prompto.

“Searching for you both with the Peacekeepers. We reported Prompto missing and...indicated you were a person of interest.”

Noctis doesn’t exactly sputter, but it’s close. “You what?”

“Perhaps not the best strategy in hindsight, but we were both rather frantic.” Ignis pauses. “I had best call Gladio and let him know you have returned safely.”

* * *

Gladio expresses his relief at their return and Noctis's decision to stay by punching Noctis in the shoulder, hard.

(Noctis grumbles at that, but not for long. He can’t, not when there are deep shadows beneath Gladio’s eyes. Not when Gladio keeps glancing at him and Prompto, as if double checking that they’re still here.)

But Gladio also brings takeout with him, and they sit around the dining room table and eat while they try to figure out how to smooth over Prompto’s three-day disappearance. Well, Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto do most of the talking; Noctis knows too little about the living world—his world, again—to be able to offer much of value when it comes to political strategy.

He knows just enough to see that there aren’t many good options. Too many people know that Prompto went missing; too many resources were used to try to find him. They’re going to need some kind of explanation that makes sense besides _temporarily transported out of the mortal realm._

(Noctis teases Prompto about not being an ordinary pleb anymore who can just skip town for a few days; Prompto flicks a stray bit of rice at him and cackles when it hits Noctis straight in the forehead.)

It isn’t until they’ve all finished eating that Gladio speaks up. “We could tell the truth,” he says, his voice a low grumble. “Or most of it. That Noctis came back, Prompto saw him, followed him, and brought him back.”

Surprise knocks the breath out of Noctis. “What?”

“Gladio,” Ignis says, and there’s a bit of an edge to it. “We decided to broach the subject later.”

Noctis remembers their voices, muffled by the bedroom door, and thinks he should have been more suspicious.

Gladio shrugs and gestures widely at Noctis and Prompto. “Yeah, but we didn’t exactly anticipate their little field trip. Seems like a suitably dramatic way to reveal the return of the Dawn King.”

“Wait a second,” Noctis says. “Just—wait. You want this public? Me, public?”

“You’re the King of Lucis, and the throne is rightfully yours,” Ignis says. His voice is quiet, confident.

“What about the elections? You guys have—you’ve been _against_ the reestablishment of any of the monarchies. Someone stabbed Gladio in the neck because of it.”

Prompto smiles, just a little. “Because they weren’t you, dude. And without you on that throne, there was no way we’d be able unite everyone into one kingdom. Not with how shaky all the survivors’ claims were for Lucius, Niflheim, and Tenebrae. We’d all splinter.”

“Not to mention the reluctance of the some of Lestallum’s leadership council to cede their powers after the Dawn,” Ignis says. “It has been a struggle to get to this point. We’ve been fortunate to avoid war in the aftermath. But if we revealed you—Noctis, the people love you. They will eventually rally behind you.”

Noctis sits back in his chair and tries to think in the silence that settles over the table.

He is struck, not for the first time, by their devotion to him. That they are willing to discard years of their own work and ambition, to put aside what their blood and sweat have bought them, just to offer him what they think is his due.

They will upend the world for him, if he only says yes.

 

He thinks of Insomnia in her glory. He thinks of the weight of bloodlines and of governing a nation by divine right and the blessings of the gods. Of the toll of being indebted to them.

He thinks of his father and what the throne cost Regis beyond the physical burden of the Ring.

He thinks of climbing those steps for his own ascension.

He thinks of Ardyn and the price, across generations, of stolen thrones.

Of Luna whispering _you deserve to be happy._

 

 

And Noctis smiles when he says no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert your favorite headcanons for Noctis’s chance at a life unburdened by prophecy and the weight of a crown]
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this odd little story. <3

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


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